The villas are vast, and fanciful as only a seaside town could conceive - mini-chateaux, turreted edifices festooned with finials, even mock-medieval fantasies. Dinard has around 400 listed buildings…

I pass a series of windmills, which arrive periodically, arms held aloft in exclamatory poses - like a leitmotif in semaphore. A headwind howls. Aaah, I understand: ideal for windmills; not quite so good for cyclists heading west.

In just a few minutes an amuse bouche arrives: in my case on a super-heated stone which itself sits on a bed of seashells, a tiny filet of fish with a garnish so delicate – miniature flowers in a network of gossamer greenery – that a single breath might blow it away.

The omelettes are prepared in the same fashion used by Mère Poulard herself, in copper pans over an open fire. A couple of men, garbed in scarlet, are hard at work around the oven, working in harmony – in such harmony that the apprentice even seems to mix the batter in time with an imaginary beat.

Arrival at the Domaine de la Tour is an enchantment almost worthy of le Grand Meaulnes*… Set on the edge of a forest in the (very grand) out-buildings of a handsome 18th Century château., the château leaps out at you, telescoped along its own formal drive, only to vanish again 30 metres later.

The design extended to my room, which was muted and matt, a deep olive off-set by understated silvery grey, with exposed beams in darker grey, but with a slightly baroque edge – a mirror, angled against the wall and an ornate, upholstered occasional chair.